


Near or Far (Always Yours)

by Heronfem



Series: Works for Others [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (i appreciate how that's already a tag), Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Coronation, Durin Family Feels, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, The Arkenstone is Bad News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: When Thrain declares that he's going to step down and hand the throne of Erebor over to Thorin, Thorin struggles to balance his emotions around his family, the throne, and potential marriage- and after years away, what Dwalin's return means for his heart and the future of all Erebor.





	Near or Far (Always Yours)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlitShadowflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlitShadowflame/gifts).



Thorin thinks, maybe, that his life is getting a bit complicated.

He sits with Dis in her chambers a week after Durin's day, the lamp lights low for the evening, and eats dinner with her. Dis is her usual self, deadpan and eternally dependable, and she doesn't hassle him to speak while they have stew from bowls that he gifted her a few years back. They're quite nice bowls, well loved, and Thorin wonders if the rest of Erebor thinks him mad for not gifting his sister finery. But Dis likes simplicity, so he gives her simple things. She lives far in the depths of Erebor, in an out of the way apartment far from the prying eyes of society. There are no guards are her door, nor has she ever needed any; besides her two fine young sons and their razor sharp weapons, Dis herself is a master with the mace.

When he's finished the stew, he sets his spoon to the side and murmurs his thanks. Dis finishes not long after, and fixes him with a sharp eyed stare.

“You don't come to visit me very much,” she says dryly. “So. Out with it.”

“Father wants to step down,” Thorin tells her, and Dis stares at him. 

“Sorry, what?”

“He wants to cede the the throne,” Thorin says, playing with the silverware and biting down the urge to run far, far from Erebor and all he knows. “Within the year. He means for me to take the throne by the next New Year. He told me two days ago.”

Dis sits back in her chair, staring blankly at the walls. Silence falls and sets up house. Thorin doesn't even know what to say. They've known the day would come when he would take the throne, but he hadn't anticipated it being while he was so _young_. He has only the littlest amount of silver in his hair, yet. He barely wears braids. He expected his father to live a long, long life and spend the majority of it upon the throne. But now, everything is up in the air.

At last, Dis says, “Alright then. What will you do about the need for an heir? The rest of Erebor may not know about your lack of interest in women, but I most certainly do, and I think you'd have rather a difficult time marrying and bedding someone you don't love. You're a terrible old romantic, Thorin.”

Thorin sighs. And there it is. 

“I won't be forced to name an heir for some time,” he says quietly, putting down the silverware lest his bend it from stress. “And when I do, I'd prefer it be Fili.”

“That won't make the council happy,” Dis says. Her dark hair shivers as she pulls it up and back, and Thorin rises to stand behind her and begin braiding it into the thick plait she prefers. “Certainly, Fili is a strong young dwarrow, and he's a good and kind man, but his parentage will be called into question. I've made no secret that I didn't care to keep his father, or the rest of the world to know him. I wanted sons, I got sons. I only knew their fathers for a night, and that was enough for me.”

“And it is enough for me, as well,” Thorin says, bending to kiss the top of his sister's head. “So far as I'm concerned, they have no other parent. They are precious things, sons only of Durin's line and nothing else.”

Dis lets out a shaky breath, shoulders loosening from tension. “Good.”

“Fili will make a fine king, when I am old and gray and senile as a bat,” Thorin says, smiling a little. “Our handsome young prince with his hair like sunshine will make for a fine leader and inspiring figure, and Kili an equally fine councilor. See, I have an heir and a spare already. Thank you, Dis.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, and stands. They gather the dishes and take them to the kitchen, and Dis sighs as she fills the sink with water. “Who else knows?”

“No one, yet. Father told me in confidence, alone.” Thorin grimaces, rolling his sleeves up. “I would like it if you would join the council as well, upon my ascendance.”

Dis snorts, plunging her hands into the hot water. “I may be a daughter of the line of Durin, my dear brother, but even my mighty heart shakes at the thought of being trapped with all those snakes that father keeps as his councilors. Thank you, but I'll decline. If you want my advice, you'll hear it with a hot meal and no one else listening in. I've had enough of politics in this damned place to last me the next ten lifetimes. The citizens of Erebor hear enough about one disgraced Princess a month to keep them satisfied. Better not to fuel the flames by letting it be public knowledge that I have my esteemed and honorable brother's ear.”

“The people of Erebor can fuck off,” Thorin says, taking a plate from her and beginning to dry. “Father made a mistake, I won't continue it. You're clever and strong and it's shameful that he's disavowed you. You're my sister and a daughter of the line, and I'll personally fight anyone who thinks that you're not worthy. The whole of Erebor can know that I listen to my esteemed and honorable sister, and if they want to fight me on it they're welcome to try.”

Dis shakes her head, but she's smiling, and they finish doing the washing up in silence.

oOo

The news spreads through Erebor like fire on dry wood two months later, leaked from the council chambers. Thorin isn't surprised. A kingdom like Erebor is never silent on matters of succession. For the most part, the mood of the city is positive. Thorin is well liked, considered competent, and Thrain's declining health is well known. There's a little grumbling that Thrain is still a capable ruler, some murmured rumors that Thorin pushed for it, but those fade when they see him with his father.

Thorin visits his brother in the archives two weeks after the announcement. 

Frerin is eternally buried among scrolls and books. After their father's rejection of Dis, Frerin had public renounced any claim to the throne and retreated to the archives of their people. He'd always been a quiet young man, but now he's practically a hermit, working to record and abridge their history into more concise books that all will be able to read. Not much given to the crafts of war, he's a masterful bookbinder. 

Thorin walks through the stacks, nodding to the workers he passes, and weaves through piles of paper until he finds Frerin's little office. It's tucked away into the quietest corner, a bulky desk with several drawers and a stack of books on it taller than most dwarves. Frerin himself sits there, writing away with a fine metal quill and lovely red ink. Thorin waits to the side of the bookshelf, not wanting to interrupt the delicate work. Frerin takes after their mother, like Thorin, with his fine-boned face and strong nose. His long hair, deep black, has been pulled up into a single braided bun, two long braids dangling by the side of his face and capped with silver. It is the only decoration he wears. His clothes are simple, dyed in a forest green, and he wears a comfortable black over-robe with little embroidery on it to keep off the chill. Frerin finishes writing a line and places the metal quill aside, capping the ink. 

“This is a surprise,” Frerin says, his voice low and gentle. He turns, his bright blue eyes brilliant in the faded light.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Thorin says, and tries for a smile but fails. The stress is beginning to wear on him. Frerin's own smile is gentle, and he stands with a whisper of fine fabric. 

“Come, I'll take you to my quarters.”

Frerin lives in a pleasant, simple set of rooms near the archives, and Thorin sits in an offered chair as his brother fetches tea. 

“I heard about the decision,” Frerin calls over his shoulder as he collects cups from a cabinet. “It was a bit of a surprise.”

“For me as well,” Thorin says, propping his arm on the table. “I had no idea until that moment.”

Frerin shakes his head. “He does like to drop world-shaking news on us at any given moment. It's my least favorite thing about him. Sugar?”

“I'm fine.”

Frerin returns with red tea poured, and passes a dainty cup to him. “So. It's earlier than our normal every three month visit, which I assume must mean that you need something.” Frerin sips his tea, looking over it at him. “I'm almost afraid to ask what it is.”

“You'll like it,” Thorin tells him, and Frerin cocks his head. “I need you to find legal precedent that will allow me to name Fili and Kili as my heirs. You and I certainly won't be having any heirs.”

“No, we will not,” Frerin agrees, looking positively gleeful. “You're right, I do like this. They're good kids, and Fili will be an excellent king. Does father know?”

“No.” Thorin shakes his head. “I've still never told him about where, ah, my tastes lie. After he disavowed Dis and you left, I didn't dare say anything. I refuse to let him end the line of Durin at himself because the threw a temper tantrum over changing times. The Arkenstone changed our grandfather to lust for gold, and father into something strange and tempermental- I shudder to think what it will try to make me. But, I will need heirs, and I have two available already.”

“Indeed you do,” Frerin says, getting up and going over to a bookshelf. Thorin sips his tea, and chokes. While Frerin's back is turned, he tosses it into a plant. His brother is many things, but good at food preparation is not one of them. “I'll take a look, but I'm certain I can find something to put them in line for succession. I assume you talked to Dis about that, and she agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.” Frerin pulls a few books down and returns to the table, humming a little under his breath. “Ah, you've finished your tea- would you like more?”

“No! No, I'm- I'm fine.” Thorin sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I should probably get back before people start looking for me.”

Frerin smiles, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I'll send you a message if I find anything.”

“Thank you, Frer.” Thorin squeezes his hand back, letting out a sigh of relief. One more thing down. Only several thousand left to go.

oOo

“You'll need a personal guard,” Thrain tells him as they walk across the wall and look out at the city of men beyond. Dales flags fly bright and high in the sun, gleaming and golden. “You've gotten away without one for some time now, but as King, you must have one at least. Preferably a few.”

Thorin holds in a sigh. “Yes, father.”

“I've recalled our rangers,” Thrain continues. His beard floats a little in the breeze, the thick white strands of it rustling back and forth and the ornaments in the braided parts clicking together. Thrain wears his 'going out' crown, a simple golden band with a moonstone set into a channel in the center of it. Thorin hates the design, and is grateful that he'll be expected to design his own. “The ones we sent out to make contact with our cousins to the west and speak with Elrond in Rivendell. They should be home in not much time. They're well seasoned warriors, all of them, and you'll be free to choose from among them when they return. Or from the group here. Don't make your choice lightly, you'll be stuck with them for a good long while.”

Thrain's personal guard, Gloin, gives Thorin a long suffering look. He does his best not to wince.

“I will, father.”

“Good, good.” Thrain stops to look out over the valley and Dale, nodding to himself. “We'll have to see about setting you up with a wife, at some point. No need to rush it yet, there's fifty thousand other things to do before putting together marriage treaties.”

Thorin's heart sinks, and a few of the guards shift uneasily. His schools his expression into something somber and polite, forcing his shoulders back down.

“As you say, there's other things to do,” Thorin says tactfully. Thrain grunts, turning back to him. 

“You never smile, my boy.”

“I smile,” Thorin says. He maintains his expression with care. “When I find reason to.”

“They all think you're some stern beast,” Thrain huffs, and carries on down the walkway. Thorin follows, counting his breaths to maintain his calm facade. “At the very least, try and practice one for court events.”

“Yes, father.”

All told, it's not a bad talk with his father. Thrain can be overbearing, but today's been not bad. Thrain leaves for a council meeting, Thorin under orders to go and meet with the goldsmiths to begin designing his crown, and it's as if a weight comes off his chest. He waits until he's alone to slump down against a wall, and buries his face in his hands. 

A _wife_ , Mahal bless him. The thought of a wife and what that would entail churns his stomach. He likes dwarrowdams in a general sense, as people, but to bed one? He can barely handle even the thought. 

Once he's composed himself, he leaves the safety of the stairwell and makes for the goldsmiths. It's a short visit, measurements and a couple quick sketches that he takes to think on. Thorin doesn't particularly like any of them yet, but he's assured that it's a process and encouraged to sketch his own ideas if he has the time. 

Free for the rest of the day, Thorin finds himself walking down echoing halls to the chamber of rule. He climbs the stone steps, takes the long walk to the throne under the watchful eyes of his ancestors, and halts.

Thorin stands before the throne, looking at its imposing and sturdy lines. He's stood at the side of it many times, when Thror ruled and wished him to sit in and listen, or when his father has wanted to prove some point or other. Thror's death had been unexpected but not a surprise, but Thorin still misses his grandfather. For all his flaws and his sickness, he had been a good man, and loved his family deeply. He'd tempered Thrain's outrage at Dis, encouraged Frerin to take up the quill instead of the blade, and spent hours upon hours teaching Thorin about how to handle the politics of the council as he taught him the art of blacksmithing. 

Thorin touches the lines of the grand seat, the worn in grooves where countless hands have clasped, the place where hundreds of years have passed with the unbroken line of Durin stretching back. The great statues of the kings look down upon him with unseeing eyes, hands on their axes, and he takes a deep breath. By the New Year, it will be his turn to sit upon the throne of Erebor, the weight of all those lives pressing down upon shoulders that must always be resolute. Thrain, Thror, Dáin, Nain... how must they have felt, with this great slab of stone before them?

Thorin steps away from the throne, and begins the long walk back along the walkway.

It feels as though the throne watches him as he goes.

oOo

The Lord of Moria arrives late in the afternoon a week after Thorin begins his fittings for robes and hair clasps and a full eight months before the New Year. Balin dresses simply but well, in fine red cloth, with a sword at his side and a book in a belt hook. He travels with only four in his retinue, and Thorin is called by his father to the throne room to see his safe return. He stands awkwardly in his blue and silver, gems dripping from delicate chains around the temporary crown he wears and into his hair. Balin flashes him a smile as he walks up the steps to the throne, and Thorin feels some of the stress of the past months fade away as Balin bows and Thrain exclaims his welcome.

“My friend, you've returned!”

“Not forever, sadly, but I could hardly miss a chance to see Thorin's crowning, so I'm here until the coronation's through,” Balin says, clasping Thrain's arm. “How are you, my king?”

“Please, I am your King no more,” Thrain insists, “we stand on equal footing now.”

“You will always be my King,” Balin says, his eyes softening. “And Thorin too, soon. I'm glad to have lived to see Moria reclaimed and Thorin on the throne.”

“It's a glorious day for Erebor and all of our people,” Thrain agrees, beaming, and Thorin manages a polite, if strained smile. His face feels strange as he tries it. He smiles so little, these days. “Come, come, let us dine together. There's little happening this evening, and you've traveled far.”

“I would be delighted, my King. Ah, forgive me. There is one more of our number, arriving late due to some things I needed done,” Balin says as they begin the walk down from the chamber of rule. “I think it would mean a great deal if the soon-to-be King met him at the gate, if he's not needed elsewhere.”

Thrain waves a hand at Thorin as they start the walk down the stairs. “Go, go, you're not needed here at the moment.” His face twists with slight disdain for a fraction of a second, looking him over. “That crown doesn't suit you, son. Don't you think it's a little boring? It's like something that brother of yours would wear.”

“It's only temporary, father, I'll design a better one,” Thorin says, keeping his face expressionless. He'll give it to Frerin, then, melted down and remade into beautiful quill nibs. They reach the end of the stairs, and Balin turns to him.

“Don't worry about asking around,” Balin says with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “You'll know him when you see him.”

Thorin bows to Balin and his company, and takes his leave. Laughter trails behind him as he struggles to keep a hold on his temper and upset. There had been no need to comment on the crown, and what especially rankled was that Thrain had said it wasn't a bad choice earlier. The Arkenstone has been worming its way into his fathers heart, it seems, and Thorin resolves to make certain he takes care with the heart of the mountain. Thorin takes several deep breaths as he strides towards the main gates through the halls reserved for the guards to keep them out of the way of the citizenry, and by the time he's reached the gate he's back to his normal stoic expression.

The guards salute him as he appears. 

“Lord Thorin,” one of them says, bowing slightly. “How may we serve you?”

“I'm to wait for the last of Lord Balin's company to arrive,” Thorin explains, brushing down his blue tunic and the furs on his cloak. “I'm told I'll know him when I see him.”

The guards let him out the gate, and Thorin breathes deep the fresh air of the valley. It stretches out before him in a strange, lopsided sort of way, Dale's comfortable buildings a reassurance on the horizon and the rush of the river pouring out from beside the gates soothing to the ears. There are several figures approaching the gates of the great kingdom, but none are close enough for him to make out. He watches them, noting their clothing and speed, what weapons they carried and how tired they seemed. 

Among them is a burly dwarf, one with a shaved down head and dressed in dull brown and green traveling gear. There are axes at his sides, and he walks lightly, head up as he looks up at the grand gates to the city. 

The sun is setting, getting in Thorin's eyes, but something... something is familiar about this dwarf. Something in his chest feels as though it's fighting to get out and run to him. 

He straightens as some of the travelers pass him and bow, and he nods back on reflex. The dwarf is coming up the long path, sun shining on his head and revealing tattoos there. Familiar tattoos. Thorin was there when he got the first row of them, and the diamonds along his knuckles. He'd inked the first row of the runes himself the week before the battle began to reclaim Moria, tended to them gently, knew those hands better than his own.

He crested the path, and froze as he caught sight of Thorin standing before the door.

“Dwalin,” Thorin says, breath catching in his throat. 

They're stock still for a moment, staring at each other, before Dwalin remembers himself and bows. He's aged like Thorin, with a few streaks of silver in his hair and beard but otherwise the same as ever. He has more tattoos now, and knuckle dusters covering the back of his hands. His clothes are like his brothers, plain but exceedingly well made. 

“Lord Thorin, it's good to see you.”

His voice is the same as ever, rich and low, a hint of a burr to it. Thorin's accent has been purged of it, a shame as he likes it so much. 

Thorin can scarcely find the words to speak. “You- I'm glad to see you, Lord Dwalin. You look well.”

“As do you.” Dwalin takes a step forward, Thorin doing the same as if pulled.

He's suddenly reminded of the crown on his head, the gold band with the gems dripping down, and feels horribly ostentatious. He wants to rip the damn thing off and throw it into the river just so Dwalin doesn't have to see him with it on. 

“Welcome home,” he says, instead of doing that, and Dwalin's smile holds a note of relief. “I've missed you.”

oOo

Dwalin is a second son, the spare to Balin's heir. He and Thorin meet at the training grounds, the young prince being battered into the ground by their instructors and the second son of a minor line being put through his paces for a life of what is doomed to be warfare. First sons train in case second sons die as fodder for the war machines, Thorin learns from his new friend when Dwalin proceeds to destroy everyone who dares to oppose him on the field. Thorin thinks that's terrible.

He also has nightmares for months about Frerin, gentle and upset even when just holding a sword, dead. 

Balin has a number of years on him, and by the time he's an adult Balin is already a captain of the guard. Dwalin expects to go off as part of the ranging dwarves, Thorin intends to start taking diplomatic missions, and they might have actually done so if Thror's age had not caught up to him so quickly. But Thror dies peacefully in his sleep, Thrain takes the throne, and suddenly, they're at war.

Moria is Thrain's only goal. Erebor is growing crowded, it must be said, and Moria is just there, ripe for the taking aside from being utterly infested with orcs. Thorin barely has time to blink before he's being fitted with true armor and going to meetings about how to tackle the approach. The army swells with the news of an assault on Moria, other dwarven kingdoms offer their assistance, and in a rare show of support even the Lothlorien and Mirkwood elves agree to give them safe passage and supplies for the assault. Lady Galadriel herself emerges from the forest of Lorien to visit her Mirkwood kin to facilitate the transport. 

The orcs are not expecting a well fed, well prepared army three kingdoms strong clad in mithril to come and break down their door. 

Thorin earns the legend-mark of Oakenshield that day in defense of his father and King. Balin and Dwalin are made Lords for their lineage and their bravery, and once the great city is purged and the Bane sealed away under marble, steel, iron, and several other metals Balin takes its seat and half of their army remains to settle while the rest return home.

And so, Thorin has not seen Dwalin since that last day in Moria. 

He's put him from his mind, for the most part. Made himself forget how Dwalin's hands had felt on his, had refused to let himself dwell on what he must be doing, how the reclamation and restoration of Moria would effect him, did not let himself care for more Dwalin any more than another Lord. He does not think of his arms and powerful body, his strength and kind smile, he does not wonder what life might have been like had he stayed. As badly as he wishes it, there is nothing that can be done. 

At least, until now.

Thorin all but bursts his sister's door open, and Dis sighs from where she's working on repairing a necklace. 

“Now what?”

“Dwalin's back.”

Dis gives him a long, unimpressed stare. “And you nearly took the door off of the hinges for that?”

Thorin grimaces, closing the door. “Dis. Dwalin is back, he arrived today. I need a bodyguard.”

“Alright?”

“What if I ask Dwalin to do it?” Thorin runs his hands through his hair, his eyes a little wild. “Can I?'

“I mean. You can physically open your mouth and do that, yes,” Dis says dryly, “but that seems like a bit rushed to me.”

“I don't want him to leave again,” Thorin blurts out, and Dis rolls her eyes. 

“I got that bit.” She nods at the table. “Sit down, I'm almost done with dinner and you look like you need something to calm your nerves.”

“I'm not _nervous_.”

“Sure.”

All the same, Thorin sits and buries his head in his hands. 

“I thought I was over him,” he tells the table. “Nothing even happened, but...”

“But you wanted it to.” Dis sounds mildly sympathetic, walking over to put a bowl of stew in front of him. “You wanted it to, but you were preoccupied with the war.”

Thorin sighs heavily, poking at a potato. It's a half remembered thing, how he'd been as little more than a child. The war had been ferocious and long, with no certainty of success. He hadn't dared even try to start something with Dwalin when both of their lives were on the line. They'd come out alive, but then Dwalin had gone to Moria and Thorin had returned to Erebor. They'd written back and forth for a bit, before life swept them up and turned them both too busy to put pen to paper. And so their correspondence dwindled into nothing. 

“If I asked, and he said yes, then he would stay here,” Thorin tells the bowl. “And then I could see him.”

“Or, you could just tell him about your feelings and perhaps he'd stay and be with you,” Dis says. 

“I can't do that,” Thorin mumbles, pushing the stew around with his spoon.

“And why not?”

He looks up at her, feeling very tired. “I'm going to be king. Even if I never have children, I may need to remain single for a political marriage.”

Dis stares at him, distinctly unimpressed. “A political marriage.”

“Yes.”

Dis folds her arms, giving him a long look. “Thorin, happiness is not something that you need to lay on the altar as a sacrifice to Mahal. You do not have to suffer like this for the rest of your life. You are allowed to be happy. You _should_ be happy. Solemnity is something befitting a king, but you do not need to live with the weight of tradition on your shoulders. Traditions have their uses, but if they cannot serve the people that currently live, what is the point of them sticking around? What care would I have for traditions that only hinder rather than help our people? Any tradition that damages rather than helps should be eradicated. You'll be king; you'll be able to make the changes that should have come to our people long ago. Suffering alone is never good. Father had mother, and has his advisers and close friends. You have acquaintances, and Frerin, and me. That's it. You need others in your life. Dwalin would be good for you, as a bodyguard or as a friend.”

Thorin traces the whorls on the table. “I don't know what to tell him.”

“Tell him the truth,” Dis says. “That you want him to stay, and to help you, in whatever capacity he would want.”

Thorin nods, looking up at her. “You've missed your calling as a counselor, Dis.”

Dis makes a face, wrinkling her nose, and punches his shoulder. “Ugh. Don't ever suggest that again. I'd kill the entire Council by the time the week was out.” She stands, shaking her head. “Me, on the Council. Honestly.”

Thorin smiles despite himself, and feels the smallest blossom of hope in his heart.

oOo

The next morning, Dwalin finds him and falls into step with him towards the training grounds. They exchange small talk, work themselves into a heavy sweat, take luxurious baths, eat together. Thorin means to talk to him about being a bodyguard, but it just never comes up. They simply go through life together as if they were never apart, and do it all over again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They fall into a rhythm of life together with hardly a word. Soon, it's simply a given that Dwalin sits in Council meetings with Thorin. It's a given that where Dwalin is, Thorin is also. The Moria contingent come to Thorin to find their Lord, and the people in charge of handling things for the Coronation grab Dwalin to make Thorin do his paperwork.

Thorin says nothing, afraid of disturbing this wonderful peace. 

Months pass in the blink of an eye. The coronation looms ever closer. The stresses pile up like the paperwork, endless mountains of it appearing that Thorin powers through while Dwalin sharpens his axe or sits with him just to read. Thorin finds that they don't need words, most days. And as the days shuffle on he finds himself smiling more and more with every apple Dwalin offers him, each bout in the ring, all their dinners and arguments about the meanings in Thorin's awful romance novels. 

It feels nice, to smile again. 

There's no reason for them to go, really. Not a very good one, at least, just that Thorin wants to get away from the endless writhing mess that is the hustle and bustle of Erebor on its way to coronation day, and that Dwalin wants new clasps for his beard. They slip away in the mid afternoon after training with Fili and Kili, and begin the walk to Dale. It's not too far, a good stretch of their legs without dragging for eternity, and they arrive when the market is winding down.

There are some others from Erebor there, who bow to them as they walk through, but Thorin and Dwalin simply nod in return and carry on. It's a quiet day, and they talk little. Dwalin selects some clasps, Thorin finds an interesting cloak clasp and buys that as well. It's a quiet day, and they escape the market to buy food and walk.

They walk in silence for a long while, simply quiet in each others company. Thorin feels no great need to break it, and when they find themselves in one of the small ornamental gardens of Dale, Dwalin clears his throat. 

“If you ask,” he says, his voice soothing, “I'd do it.”

“Ask what?” Thorin takes a seat on the bench, Dwalin sitting beside him. The sun filters down through the trees and onto the flagstones. It's a rare day of quiet and peace inside Dale, the hustle and bustle of the city seeming to have taken a step back to allow them some time together. 

“If you asked me to stay, and be your guard. For real, not just... not just like I have been.”

Thorin turns to look at him properly. Dwalin shows no sign of joking, his expression somber. Above them, birds are singing. It feels somewhat mocking.

“What if,” Thorin says very quietly, “I don't want you to be my guard? And all I want is for you to stay.”

Dwalin gives him a long look, his dark eyes unreadable. “Are you asking as my King?”

“No,” Thorin says, his voice soft. “Not as your King. Only as Thorin, a dwarrow who has wished you by his side for many a long year.”

Dwalin looks away, turning his face up to the sun. Thorin wonders why he hasn't asked before this, as his breath catches in his throat. Dwalin is craggy and sturdy, a study in strength and dignity.

“I would guard you well,” Dwalin says softly. “My love and care for you has never been in question. But I wonder if I could be both. The guard at your side, and the one on your arm to guard your heart and guide you when the throne bears down on you. Equals in all but name. I would like to try.”

“You are a Lord of Moria, next in line to reign there,” Thorin says, because he feels he has to point out to Dwalin what he's giving up. 

Dwalin raises an eyebrow. “Why should I want the throne? I am not a dwarrow made to be a King, Thorin. Balin has that dignity and understanding in spades, and I have a temper and a joy for the way an axe fits in my hands and armor fits on my shoulders. I am made to defend my King and my people, not sit in judgment with them. There are others who can take the throne of Moria, heirs from my family who are better suited. You are suited to Erebor's halls, and I am suited to your right hand.”

Thorin kisses him, because there's nothing else for it. As first kisses go, it could have been better, but he's incapable of holding back. They all but topple off the bench, but Dwalin steadies them and kisses him back. 

“Right,” Dwalin says when they both pull back, red faced. “That answers that question.”

“Please stay with me,” Thorin says, because he has to know for certain. Dwalin leans in to kiss him again, and again, soft things that have Thorin melting inside. 

“I'll stay,” Dwalin says, and Thorin feels like his entire being is a sunrise made flesh. 

They leave Dale as night begins to fall, taking each others hands once the city is behind them and there are no eyes upon them. When they reach the halfway point, Thorin stops. Dwalin follows suit a beat late, turning to him with a raised eyebrow. The valley stretches out before and around them, and the great statues of the dwarves with their axes lowered stand high in the distance. Thorin reaches up to run his fingers through Dwalin's hair, and Dwalin bends to kiss him, slow and sweet. Thorin feels as though he might melt into it, stepping in to holding him tight, and smiles against Dwalin's lips. 

“You're a brave dwarrow, Dwalin, to be willing to put up with loving the King Under the Mountain.”

Dwalin chuckles, taking his hand as they walk towards the mountain. “I can put up with a lot, if it means I can have you.” 

Dwalin walks him to his chambers, as he has for the past few months. The guards don't seem to notice anything different as they make their way through Erebor, and as Thorin opens the door to his chambers he stops and looks back at where Dwalin stands. 

“Would you care to come in?” he asks, and Dwalin's eyes widen slightly, but he follows. Thorin shuts the door behind him, throws the bolts, and turns to Dwalin. 

“Are we doing this?” Dwalin asks, eyes bright with intent. “So soon?”

“Is it soon?” Thorin asks, pulling his cloak off and letting it fall to the floor. “Or does it feel like we've been waiting our whole lives for this?”

“You have a point there,” Dwalin says, his eyes following Thorin's form and lingering on his arms. “Mahal, but I've been waiting a long time.”

Thorin strides to him, pulling him in for another kiss. Dwalin returns it with relish, and soon clothes find themselves dropped to the floor in a trail to the bed. Thorin will worry about the state of his laundry later- at the moment he has Dwalin before him at long awaited last. He has more interesting things to reflect on. 

Neither of them have waited for the other. There had been no discussion on it, after all, and they were warriors in arms. There had been experiences prior. But as Thorin slid into Dwalin, one hand holding his and the other raking down his back, he found himself thinking that the past had nothing on the present, and hopefully the future. Dwalin bites kisses along his neck, Thorin runs sharp nails down his chest, and in the morning they wake up comfortable and content. 

The morning sunlight slips through the clever windows, and Thorin stretches lazily as Dwalin nestles up against him like a great heat-seeking cat. It is, he thinks, a good morning. 

They don't make it down to the city itself until nearly midday, and Thorin has no doubt that by the end of the month they'll be the worst kept secret in all of Erebor. 

He's a bit smug about it.

oOo

Frerin comes through with legal precedent that he triumphantly places before Thorin in the form of eight massive tomes, and Thorin promptly turns around and lays them on the Council. After eight shouting matches, his Father nearly disowning him, a visit from Dis to the Council itself to lay into them, three different affidavits from different kingdoms around Middle Earth declaring that the copies of records that Erebor had are real and not forgeries, and one best forgotten visit from a grumpy old wizard who shouts at Thrain for four hours straight, Fili and Kili are named Thorin's heirs one month before the coronation.

Thorin doesn't pound the table in satisfaction but it's a near thing.

Fili and Kili have been treated similar to princes since their birth, regardless of Dis's near disownment, but now they're the real thing and have to face the music of classes and yet more training. Fili accepts his new responsibilities with more grace than his younger brother, who seems to be under the impression that they intend to torture him. 

Which, given that they're now training with Dwalin and Thorin, isn't that far from the truth. Dwalin is a fair but brutal trainer, and works them all to the bone with a maniacal smile on his face. He puts them all through their paces over and over alongside the guard, until none of them can take it any further and collapse. 

“He's a demon,” Kili gasps, bow on the ground. “Uncle, control Lord Dwalin.”

“As if I could make Dwalin do anything he didn't want to,” Thorin says from where he's slumped against a pillar, soaked in sweat and watching as Fili goes up against Dwalin one more time. It's like watching a bumblebee trying to fight a battering ram, and Fili soon joins them on the floor. 

Dwalin leans on his axes, a bit of a smirk on his face. “Ahhh, the fall of the line of Durin.”

“Peace, my lord,” Kili groans, rolling over so that he's face-first on the floor. “Spare us.”

“Ah, well, you beg so pretty, how could I not?” Dwalin drawls, looking amused. He pokes Kili's side with the butt of his axe, nudging him into motion. “Up you get, the lot of you, before you stink up the whole training yard and get stuck in your gear.”

There's a collective groan, and Kili levers himself up. Fili follows him, though Thorin decides to stay and catch his breath a little more. They have this training room for a little longer, before it's taken over by someone else on the schedule, and the guards often fight for the chance to cover this room to watch Dwalin kick their soon-to-be king around. Thorin would be offended if not for the fact that he's aware it's absolutely hilarious to anyone not being thrashed by Dwalin. He's more than strong enough to hold his own, but Dwalin is an entirely different beast. His stamina is ridiculous.

“You know,” Dwalin says as Fili and Kili leave to go and wash up, “I never really did get over you.”

Thorin looks up from where he's been examining his blade, feeling his face heat up a bit. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Dwalin's face is red above his beard. From across the way, he can see the guards nudging each other. He decides to ignore them in favor of staring up at Dwalin. Dwalin looks like he's suddenly regretting speaking, but not about to take it back, and Thorin feels a little thrill of delight race through him.

“You... you were carrying a torch for me?”

“Yeah.” Dwalin swings his axe onto his back, still red faced. “A large one. Bonfire sized, even.”

Thorin looks back at his sword, his face practically on fire. They're in public, after all, but this is just too wonderful. “Well I'm... glad to know it was mutual. I miss the mohawk, though.”

“Tragically, nothing in this world will bring the mohawk back,” Dwalin says, his lips twitching into a smile. “Even Mahal himself can't bring my once glorious hair back.”

“Truly, a tragedy for our times,” Thorin says dryly, but smiles. He sheathes his sword, grimacing at how stiff he feels. His practice gear is heavy, not full maille but enough weight to slow him down, and he's more than ready to be out of it.

“C'mon,” Dwalin says, reaching out a hand and levering him up. “Let's go home.”

“Yours or mine?” Thorin doesn't let go of his hand, and refuses to look at the pair of guards excitedly nudging each other. Dwalin's also firmly not looking at them, eyes fixed on him. 

“I was thinking, perhaps... ours.”

Thorin's mind goes blank for a good moment. Dwalin waits, watching him. 

“As in, a combined place, where we would both live,” Thorin says carefully. 

“That would be the idea, yes.” Dwalin smiles at him, obviously nervous. “Too soon?”

“No! No, I... I quite like it,” Thorin admits. The guards are definitely watching with glee now. “Do you want to get a new set of chambers or is my set fine?”

“I like yours.” Dwalin's shoulders lose a bit of tension. They're still holding each others hands, Thorin realizes, and he tangles their fingers together and squeezes lightly. Dwalin's smile grows wider. “Yours has a better view than mine. And looking for a place right now would be tedious at best since you'll be moving at some point anyway.”

“You do have a point.” 

Dwalin's smile turns into a grin. “Of course I do. Come on, we both smell like death. Let's get this lot cleaned up and get some lunch.”

Thorin nods, squeezing his hand one more time, and lets go as they head towards the doors.

He pauses between the guards as they head out the door, and says in a deceptively mild voice, “I don't think I'd have to warn you about how unhappy I'd be if this got out before we intended to tell people about it, do it?” 

The guards both shake their heads frantically, blood draining from their faces. Thorin gives them his best serene smile.

“Good. And should it get out, I have a _very_ good memory for faces.”

“Of course, my Lord,” they chorus.

Thorin turns to leave, and is about to walk out the door when on of them blurts out, “It's good to see you smiling again, my lord.”

Thorin stops, heart aching with some unnamed emotion. “Thank you,” he says at last, when he has his voice again, and leaves with a true smile on his face.

oOo

Balin finds him in the middle of preparations three days before the coronation, neck deep in papers to sign and fabric swatches to approve for everything from socks and underclothes to the napkins. As the Lord of Moria, he's been helping shepherd the dignitaries from Dol Amarath to Lothlorien into their respective places with careful finesse, and Thorin's not had time to speak with him much in the last few weeks. He watches for a bit, Thorin barely noticing him, before he walks in and takes a seat beside the desk.

“Dwalin's told me he intends to stay with you,” he says without preamble, and Thorin looks up from the pile to see that Balin's eyes are soft and gentle. 

“Ah,” he says awkwardly. “Ye-es. About that, I-”

“I hardly mind,” Balin says, chuckling. “You've been staying together for quite some time now, and you look better and better each day. So does he, for that matter. It does you both good, being together. I suspected when I invited him along on this little journey that I'd be coming home without him.”

Thorin's cheeks flush red. “I'm- erm.”

Balin laces his fingers over his stomach, his smile tinged with nostalgia. “Please, Thorin. Anyone could see that the two of you were bound together. You always have been. Ever since the first day you met, the two of you have been on a collision course with the force of a falling star. Dwalin's place has always been at your side, here, in Erebor. I'll miss him, but not so bad as I might knowing that he'll be by your side.”

“Thank you, Balin,” Thorin says softly, and Balin's smile broadens. “It means a lot.”

“You've been a near and dear friend for a long time, Thorin,” Balin says, standing up. “If my brother's to devote his life to anyone, of course it should be you.”

Thorin bows his head, and Balin leaves him with lots of thoughts. 

Once he's wrapped up his work for the night, he makes his way through the great halls of Erebor up to his rooms. He walks steps that countless others have, following his feet up the grand staircases, over and over again breathing deep the air that hundreds of thousands of others breathe each day. He pushes the door open to find the fires lit and comfortable crackling. Dwalin sits in the soft, overstuffed chairs in the sitting area with a book in his hands, dressed down into a long tunic like the one Thorin favors and comfortable breeches. He looks utterly domesticated, the light dancing on his skin. Thorin can't quite seem to catch his breath. 

“Welcome home,” Dwalin says, glancing up at him with a lightning quick smile. Thorin shuts and bolts the door blindly. He doesn't want to look away. 

“Hello, Dwalin.”

Dwalin looks up at him again, sees the look on his face, and grins. “Oh. _Hello_.”

Thorin strides across the room and bends to kiss him, fingers tangling in his beard and hair to hold him close as he climbs onto his lap. Dwalin's sturdy hands grip his hips as he settles, and Thorin can't quite seem to stop his head from spinning. 

It is, all in all, a good evening. 

In the morning, Thorin wakes with Dwalin at his side, and rolls over to face him. Dwalin blinks at him, eyes bleary. 

“You don't have to answer right away,” Thorin says quiet, and Dwalin blinks again as he comes fully awake. “But... would you consider becoming my consort, in time?”

Dwalin stares at him, eyes stunned. 

“Like I said,” Thorin says, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Give it some thought. It's not a decision to make lightly.”

Dwalin nods, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face. “I will. I'll think about it.”

Thorin nods, kissing him softly, and gets up for the day. He puts it from his mind and throws himself into his work, going to this appointment and that, getting his crown settled at last on his head for final adjustments and measurements, finalizing which napkins to use, and a thousand other little things that people want his opinions on before he makes his way to Frerin's quiet chambers and all but launches himself inside to hide. 

He comes back late, and kisses Dwalin's forehead as he climbs into bed. Dwalin pulls him into his arms in his sleep, and Thorin goes quietly. 

He wakes up smiling.

oOo

The coronation is a blur. There's a procession from the lowest livable depths of Erebor to the highest, and then up to the throne. Thrain says a few words about the passing of the crown that Thorin barely catches, eyes fixed just above Thrain's head at the ominous Arkenstone in the throne. It gleams and pulses, as if it knows that a change is coming. Thrain steps down, lifting the simple crown from its box, and sets it on Thorin's head. The design is simple, a plain band of interlocking geometric spirals made of gold, and it rests on his head perfectly.

For something so small, it carries a great deal of weight. 

Thrain takes his hands, looking him in the eyes. Thorin swallows hard, wondering what his father means to tell him. 

“You'll be fine,” Thrain says, shocking him. He seems lighter, the mantle passing away easing strain. He looks younger, somehow, and his smile is kind. The weight of the heart of the mountain no longer rests heavy on him. “You've prepared for this day your whole life. I'm proud of you, Thorin. You'll be a good king.”

And he steps away. 

Thorin looks to the throne. Climbs the steps. Takes a seat on the cold, cold granite. 

The honor guard along the walkway crash swords against shields. 

“Hail!” Balin calls out from his place at the left of the throne. “The old King has descended, the new King ascended! Long life to the king!”

All of Erebor booms, “HAIL,” in response. The halls echo with it, reverberating and crashing. The hair on the back of his neck lifts. 

“Honor to the King!”

“ _HAIL_!”

“Long may he reign!”

“ _HAIL_!”

The last _hail_ is somehow even louder than the rest, the mountain itself seeming to shake with the force of it. Thorin can barely breathe, the robes and furs on his chest heavy, the metal plates weighing him down. The crown feels as if it's all that's holding his head together as the echoes slowly die. Balin steps back, and Thorin stands. 

He's been staring at his speech for weeks, it seems. Tweaking this word and that, cutting phrases. All of it flies away as he stands there. 

In the end, it doesn't matter. The words come to him, easy on his tongue, and he lets them flow. 

“Erebor is not a place,” he says, looking over the guard, his father, the dignitaries there. Thranduil and his son look interested, and Balin's smile is gentle but proud. Fili and Kili stand with Dis and Frerin, his family beaming as they look up at him. Thorin's eyes find Dwalin's, the dwarrow himself dressed in fine cloth and his armor, and fixes his look on him. Dwalin looks so proud, head held high, and Thorin speaks directly to him. “Erebor is her people. We carry her in our hearts and our minds. I swear to do the whole of Erebor proud, and to honor those who came before me in my choices. But also I swear to provide a better future for those who come after. Long live Erebor; our home and our hearts.”

Thrain steps forward, his deep voice booming out, “Long live Erebor!” 

The guards clash sword and shield again, and the call rolls down in waves through the mountain; a declaration, and a prayer.

Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, sits once more upon the throne of Durin.

oOo

He finds Dwalin in their chambers, looking out over the valley far beyond from the opened windows. He's out of his armor and weapons, stripped down only to his breeches, the elaborate tattoos on his skin showing up strong despite the faint light from the moon. Thorin's fingers itch to trace him, but instead he slips off the cloak and the heavy plate until he's once again in his soft, comfortable blue linens and unburdened. Below, he knows the coronation banquet is in full swing, but the mass of people has grown oppressive.

He takes the crown from his head and sets it down, off to the side on the table. The gold gleams in the lamplight, reflecting Dwalin in its highly polished surface. 

“I decided. I won't,” Dwalin says without turning. “I won't be your consort. I won't rule at your side.”

The disappointment is bitter on Thorin's tongue. “What do you want, then?”

Dwalin doesn't turn, his eyes fixed on the moon far above. “I want a lot of things, my king. I want a comfortable life, but not to leave adventure behind. I want to be happy, and healthy, and teach your young Princes what it is to be a warrior and a lord. I want to be your adviser, and confidant, and the place you go when playing politics gets old.”

Thorin blinks, uncertain if relief is the word for how he feels, but feeling lighter. 

“So... you'll stay?”

Dwalin pushes away from the window. His beard's been braided into a fine and elegant thing, silver clasps in it. “I'll stay. Of course I'll stay.” His eyes seem to burn in the half-light, and Thorin takes a few steps forward. “I made a promise to you, to always be at your side. I don't want to be consort; I want you to be able to let the throne go, just like Thrain did, when the time is right for Fili to sit on it. I don't want my name tying you there.”

Thorin feels a little dizzy and makes his way to a chair, all but collapsing into it. Dwalin watches, his eyes a little softer than expected. 

“Did you think I was going to go?” he asks. 

“I wondered.”

Dwalin snorts. “Well, you can stop wondering. I'm not going anywhere. I have a king, a home, a life here. You expect the worst out of everyone, but I intend to show you that I'm at my best here. With you. And should you want me, in time, I would marry you.”

The admission knocks any words that might have followed from his throat, and Thorin takes a moment to compose himself as the words sink in. Dwalin waits, his eyes kind.

Thorin licks his lips when he feels he can breathe again. “I am a possessive man.”

“You say that as if I'm not possessive myself,” Dwalin shoots back.

“People will talk.”

“People always talk,” Dwalin replies. 

Thorin's legs feel more sturdy under him, so he rises, walking to Dwalin so they're face to face. 

“People will say that you're using me, that you're angling to give Moria more power, that you're little more than a toy,” Thorin says, his voice going soft. “They will pull no punch, they will tell every lie in the book, they will make you into a demon because of me. They will mock you, and make snide remarks, and off color jokes about your position. I will not hide that we are partners together in all things, even if you are not my consort. I will not lie to the people and make an illusion that I might take a wife when I could have you as a husband. They will know, because I refuse to hide it any longer. Not from my father, not from Erebor. I would have you out in the open, but it would make you a target.”

Dwalin reaches up, gently taking the crown from Thorin's head and setting it on the dining table. He runs his hands through Thorin's hair, expression somber, but eyes soft. “Let them come. I can take it, if I have you at my side.”

“Are you certain in that statement?” Thorin asks him, reaching up to catch his wrist and rub his thumb over the softer skin on the pulse point. “Are you sure, Dwalin?”

Dwalin kisses his forehead, and Thorin closes his eyes at the feeling that rushes through him. 

“I have loved you for a long time, my king,” Dwalin says, his voice so deep a rumble that it seems to shake Thorin's very bones. “I won't be letting you go so easily, this time.”

Thorin takes a deep, shuddering breath. “The laws will change. I will break them and remake them into something better, for us and for our people. I will strive to be worthy of the love of so good a Lord of Moria.”

Dwalin chuckles, the sound resonating in Thorin's bones. “And I will strive to be worthy of the attentions of my king and my love.”

“As if you could ever be anything but worthy,” Thorin says, and kisses him hard. Dwalin's hands tangle in his hair as he kisses him back.

oOo

On Sunday evenings, the King Under the Mountain and a Lord of Moria walk together through the Erebor markets. It's the quietest time of the week. They dress simply, but well, and wear no finery save the engagement clasps that are threaded into their beards. The people of Erebor rarely bother them with serious problems when they appear in the markets. It's their time, to bicker about food they want and whetstones they like, to chat with those in the market about their children and their livelihoods. The elderly give them advice on their approaching nuptials, children gasp at Lord Dwalin's tattoos, Thorin compliments craftsmen on their fine wares and is always inevitably pulled into a game of tag.

Laws change, times change. And no one can find fault with their King for his choice in husband. He is a fine dwarrow, Dwalin of Moria and Erebor, and the brother of the Lord besides. A fine dwarrow, a wise adviser, even tempered and quick to laugh, good with a blade and kind in his eyes- the people approve, in little time. They love their Princes, Fili's golden hair and Kili's bright smile. But they love their King most of all.

For of all the gold and riches in Erebor, the people thing the most valuable and precious is this; the laughter and smile of their King, the sound ringing up through the rafters as his soon-to-be husband chases him through the market with children on his heels.

And all is well in Erebor.

**Author's Note:**

> As noted above, this was a commission from flitshadowflame. Thank you for all your support through the years, I am so grateful for all you've done for me. I know I'm not the best at sharing my feelings, but your support has not gone unnoticed.


End file.
